


The Lying Game

by mousecookie



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alcohol, Astrid takes calculated risks, Deception, Disguise, F/M, Lucien's ego deserves its own character tag, Pre-Canon, the end result is surprisingly NOT crack, written for the physical affection prompt "interlocking pinkies"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:01:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28345800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mousecookie/pseuds/mousecookie
Summary: Lucien and Astrid play cat-and-mouse.They both think they're the cat.
Relationships: Astrid & Lucien (Critical Role), Lucien (Critical Role)/Astrid (Critical Role)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 26





	The Lying Game

**Author's Note:**

> For my dear kaeda, who gave me a delightful zinger prompt of "Lucien/Astrid, interlocking pinkies" for a fic prompt meme on tumblr. The result got a little too long and so it's landing here on Ao3. It was a fun challenge to write - I hope you enjoy!

Lucien supposed that Rexxentrum could be considered a rather attractive city, if one was in the right mindset. The buildings were tall, angular, and imposing, with intricate carvings tucked like secrets into the eaves and door frames. Built to withstand biting winters. A hardy home for hardy people. 

Currently, Lucien was most interested in Rexxentrum’s hardy wine. He slipped into a comfortably rowdy pub, and quickly secured a strong spiced tankard and a secluded corner table.

His meeting with the Archmage of Antiquities had gone as planned. The Tombtakers were officially hired for some irrelevant, petty mission that would take them to where they needed to go. The Archmage herself - DeRogna - would provide the resources they required. It was unfortunate that she had insisted on accompanying them, as she clearly suffered from inflated notions of her own importance. He’d expected it, leveraged it. People like DeRogna were easy to manipulate.

But that didn’t mean it didn’t grate horribly on Lucien’s patience.

The nerve of the woman! She’d treated him like a common sellsword. And, yes, Lucien had billed himself as a common sellsword - it would be idiocy to spill his true identity and mission - but he was intelligent. Powerful. He also preferred a genial rapport with those he traveled with. He’d attempted to establish such with Vess DeRogna, making a few pointed comments that should have earned her respect. Instead, they had only won her condescension. Pah! She was so sure her crumbling little trinkets would connect her to something deeper, more meaningful, about the mysteries of the past. The hardest part of this mission was going to be biting his tongue. He would soon wield power that Vess DeRogna, stuffy scholar in her stuffy tower, could only dream about. 

He took a deep pull of his tankard, willing the strong wine to take the edge off his ire. DeRogna was a means to an end. He would put up with it. 

“Say, you look like you’re from out of town,” said a honeyed voice. Lucien looked up to see a petite human woman had approached his table. “Can I buy you a drink, if you’ll tell me a story?” 

Lucien looked her up and down. She was certainly pretty, with playful green eyes and a corset cinched generously tight. Interestingly, his Truesight told him most of it was glamour. She’d made her hair longer, lush and curly, subtly softened her facial features, and covered up several distinctive scars to her neck and face. She’d even added some fine embroideries to her dress and made it look longer and fuller than it really was. It was masterfully done. 

“And why might you be interested in my stories, out of all these people? Don’t I frighten you?” He smiled easily, letting his canines flash, just for show. 

The woman grinned and flicked a blonde ringlet away from her bosom. “People here only have the same old tales, over and over,” she said. “I want something _new._ ”

Lucien could appreciate a thirst for knowledge. 

Idly, he considered her proposition. If she’d been exactly as she seemed, he’d have turned her away. But the scars, the advanced glamour, and the pointed way she had singled him out... hmm. He’d been looking for a distraction from DeRogna, and a bit of appreciative company could do the job as well as wine. 

“Another of these then, dear, if you’d be so kind,” he decided, lifting his tankard of spiced wine. “And pull up a chair.”

He learned her name was Frieda, and she’d lived in Rexxentrum her whole life, never venturing more than a league away from the city. She dreamed of serious traveling one day, when her pocketbook would allow. In the meantime she found a connection to the great wide world through an accounting job for a prosperous merchant, one that imported goods from all corners of Exandria. It was a perfect explanation for why she might gravitate towards a strange purple tiefling in a tavern. 

Lucien didn’t believe a word of it. 

His interest was sparked. As well as being a magic user, she was an accomplished liar. Was she an agent from the local thieves’ guild? A Crown spy? Part of a rival mercenary group? A lackey from DeRogna, come to test his discretion about the job he’d just been hired for? None of these possibilities particularly concerned him - “Frieda” would learn only what he told her, and be silenced otherwise. Any attempts to rob him would be laughable.

He sipped his wine and let his companion weave her tale, making sympathetic noises at all the right times.

“I see beautiful things from all over the world pass through our doors, but I never get to learn their stories,” she complained at the end, leaning her cheek on her hand in a way that was enticingly unguarded, and yet, to Lucien’s keen perception, exquisitely deliberate. She was good.

“Am I a beautiful thing that came through your door, then?” he teased, just for the entertainment of watching her execute a perfect charming laugh. 

“If you like,” she said, looking up at him through her lashes. She traced the woodgrain of the table with her index finger in slow, looping patterns. “So... you have your drink. And a bit of my story. What’s _your_ story?” 

She didn’t ask his name. 

He told her about his childhood on the Menagerie Coast, his time sailing as a lowly deck hand, petty disputes with the Clovis Concord, dangerous quests into the jungle for treasure - the kind of swashbuckling stories that would have thrilled any adventure-hungry city girl.

It was all patently false, of course. Two could play the lying game. Lucien could play it better.

Frieda leaner closer across the table, the very picture of enthrallment. “It sounds wonderful,” She said wistfully, voice gone soft with spiced wine. “How long are you in town for? I’ll buy you drinks every night if you tell me more stories like that.”

“Remains to be seen,” Lucien said. “That’s the nature of business, I’m afraid.”

“If you do stay, promise me you’ll come back here tomorrow,” she begged prettily. “Please?”

Lucien wasn’t staying. “I think I can arrange that,” he replied with a thoughtful grin. “If I stay, I’ll come back here.” 

“Promise?” she giggled, holding out her pinky finger like a child making a vow. She blushed, like she knew it was silly but was too tipsy to care.

Lucien almost laughed aloud. She was bold! He was never one to back down, though, and he somberly linked his pinky with hers. He kept his senses heightened for any spell that might take effect, ready to flash one of his Eyes to counterspell it if necessary. Interestingly, there was none. The only odd thing he noticed were calluses that an accountant shouldn’t have. 

“Promise,” he replied with a wink.

Then she brushed her fingertips against the back of his captured hand, right over one of his Eyes. “Is this a tattoo? It’s so unusual. The color is so intense!”

Anger flared like a firecracker - _how dare she_ \- but he quickly tamped it down. Showing his irritation would be a point lost in the game, and rude besides.

“The Menagerie Coast is known for its bright colors,” he said. Slowly, giving her time to move back, he cupped the side of her face. She’d been angling for this escalation since she sat down, and he’d let her think she was getting somewhere. Sure enough, she immediately began putting on a good show of being bashfully pleased, turning into his palm, lowering her gaze.

Thoughtfully, he ran his thumb down the scar that he shouldn’t be able to see.

“It’s a shame you hide this,” he remarked. “You’re very striking without all the get-up.”

Her eyes flew wide - some genuine surprise there, delicious - and she jerked out of his grasp to cover her scar with her hand. Impressively, the words that came out of her mouth were still perfectly in character.

“You can see it?!” she gasped, sounding more embarrassed than afraid.

Lucien grinned, full of teeth. “Very little escapes my notice.” 

“Is it - you don’t think it’s-- I’m-- ugly?” Her eyes grew glassy with apparent old hurts. 

“Not at all,” Lucien soothed, playing his role, taking hold of her chin and tipping it up. “Anyone who’s told you so is a cad, and a liar.”

“That’s very kind,” she smiled through her tears. 

Lucien laughed. “I’ve been called many things, but rarely kind. I merely see the true faces of everyone I meet,” Lucien said. Unseen, the Eye on the back of his neck flared bright as Lucien commanded it to look, and take, and learn. _Give me a name._ Obediently, a pair of syllables filtered into his consciousness, carrying with them a bitter tang that reminded him of belladonna. He curled his tongue around it and spun it in silk. “And yours is far too interesting to be ugly, _Astrid_.”

Ah. There, just for a moment, a flicker of real fear. 

Good. He didn’t like being underestimated.

“Thanks for the drink, my dear,” Lucien said, releasing her and getting to his feet. “I’ll be seein' ya.”

He was bored of this game, and when it came down to it, he didn’t really care who this woman was, or who her master was. Nothing would get in the way of his plans. Once he had the book, he could perform the ritual, and he’d be one step closer to the most powerful state of being there was: perfect knowledge. _The Nonagon._

He didn’t look back as he strode out of the tavern and into the night.

* * *

Back at the shadowy corner table, Astrid Beck was dabbing a neatly-folded handkerchief at her wet eyes. She looked the perfect picture of a girl who’d been turned down by her swain.

Mentally, however, she was running through what she’d learned.

_The tattoos are magical; I knew that before I sat down. He likely has perpetual Truesight. From the tattoos? Are they anything like mine? Possible ability enhancements. He’s a good liar, confident, but has some distaste for it. Charismatic. Ego is a weakness. My disguise paid off. How did he know my name? An evolution of Truesight, perhaps. I felt him cast something. Need more data._

Her heart was still beating just a little too fast. It was thrilling, in a way. Duping idiots was a tedious job. Duping someone intelligent, someone dangerous? Far more satisfying. Whatever DeRogna was up to, working with this tiefling - he seemed like a wildcard. Perhaps Eadwulf could approach him later and provoke more information from him. 

For appearance’s sake, Astrid lingered morosely over her wine for another twenty minutes. Then she stood and made her own exit into the night. Ikithon would want a full report.

**Author's Note:**

> I do more yelling about Critical Role and other things on tumblr - I'm [ariadne-mouse](https://ariadne-mouse.tumblr.com/).


End file.
